


Trading Breaths at Dawn

by koalarin



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14929334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalarin/pseuds/koalarin
Summary: Elliot Yorke, Mercury Dawson, a poorly makeshift mechanism of coping between two lost souls, and how to let go of someone whose name is forever invisibly inked on your skin.





	Trading Breaths at Dawn

_**SUICIDE AT 105 KELLER STREET.** _

_Jupiter Dawson (27) was found dead by the police at her apartment on Tuesday, February 6th. It is convinced that she killed herself by consuming an excessive amount of sleeping pills and holding her breath. Dawson was known to have been struggling with depression for a while before deciding to commit suicide. She left behind a little sister._

✽ 

You think of quitting your job after the tragedy in your small town.

Working in a suicide hotline has never been an easy job, but hearing someone you actually knew and _failed_ to help end their life feels like a personal hell of guilt and nightmares. Being interviewed for approximately ten times by the police officers and journalists is undeniably the cherry on top.

You never really get around to it though. Quitting, that is.

You have a feeling you would end up killing yourself too if you give up on helping now.

✽ 

The call first comes at 3:04 am.

They tell you she has specifically asked for Elliot Yorke and there is no way on earth you can say no to that even though you’re supposed to be done with your shift.

The line is connected now and you say your greetings and wait and wait and wait but there is nothing but silence and you finally open your mouth to speak again only to have her beaten you to it.

“I’m Mercury Dawson,” she hesitantly begins and you feel chill running down your spine. “I suppose you might have heard about me.”

It begins again.

✽ 

You don’t really know how to start but the words _I’m sorry_ slip out of your tongue without you even realizing.

She doesn’t immediately say anything in response and you glance at the clock only to find it has been silent for a full minute now. In spite of everything, you are not surprised if she blames you for failing to save the life of her sister. That’s fine, you think. You kind of blame yourself too.

You might even hate yourself more than she hates you.

Expecting a cold answer after the deep breath you’ve heard her taking, she surprises you by saying, “I’m sorry, too.”

You almost drop the telephone at the sincere apology she offers you. The law of universe and human nature doesn’t work like this, you are sure of that. You are expected to beg for this young lady’s forgiveness, or at least, to give an explanation you’ve never had in the first place. _So why,_ you ask yourself, _why is she doing this?_

When you’re too dumb-founded to find your words, she continues as if she hears what you can’t say crystal clear. “It must be as hard for you as it is for me.”

Mercury Dawson, you decide that day, is the banisher of Murphy’s Law.

✽ 

It is 2:12 am on your next shift and you are listening to her stories.

About her long gone mother, who died not long after she had given birth to her. About her distant father, who now lives with his new family. About Mr and Mrs Moore, the elderly couple from next door who invite her for dinner every other night and still look at her with too much sadness in their eyes.

You find out she’s taking a break from studying.

“It’s sort of tiring when you still have unexpected breakdowns from time to time,” she explains to you, trying to laugh it off and naturally failing.

She talks about her late sister too. Sometimes. It is still an extremely hard subject for her, despite the unforgiving gears of time. You can hear it in the way her breath hitches whenever she mentions the name _Jupiter._

You never know how to respond to her stories, but you listen anyway. You always, always listen.

It is the least you can do.

✽ 

The phone rings again and it is 2:33 am this time around.

By now, it is almost like a violent burst of violet and orange clockwork. She calls you at dawn and it becomes a makeshift mechanism of coping not only for her, but for you too.

The guilt, you realize, will never go away completely. But knowing the one person who actually matters the most doesn’t resent you for what you do and what you fail to do helps a lot more than one would think.

Mercury, unlike everyone else who calls the hotline, never actually talks about killing or even harming herself. You try to find solace in the fact but it haunts your mind instead. Because despite all of it, you also know there’s still a weight burdening her shoulder and monsters fighting for her sanity.

So you try your best yet the next time she calls you. “Won’t you let me help you, Mercury?”

You receive a pained _only_ _when I’m ready_ in return.

Inhale. Exhale.

You convince yourself it counts for something.

✽ 

She finally brings up the long-postponed talk at 3:47 am weeks after the routine began.

“How much do you know about my sister?” she asks, her voice sad and raw and lonely.

The question makes your heart drop to your stomach. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t seen it coming like this. Because, _of course,_ you had.

Oh boy, had you.

It still doesn’t make things less difficult though.

“Not much,” you answer truthfully after a few seconds of heavy breathing. It is only afterwards you realize that your voice is trembling, and so are your hands. But your wavering strength doesn’t stop you. Tonight, you decide to be as honest as the universe lets you be and as sincere as the woman buried six feet underground would want you to be.

Mercury Dawson, more than anything, deserves to know the last bits of her beloved sister’s life.

So at her side of waiting silence, you continue, “Just that she had been suffering for a very long time and how much she’d like to be up there among the stars.”

“Anything else?” she asks— _begs_ —of you.

You stare at the ceiling now, wishing for a blank page in the lives of all the people who are hurting as much as she is about to be.

Closing your eyes, you recite the words you heard a long time ago.

_“I desperately wish I could tell her that I love her, that I am proud of her, and that there isn’t a single place in the world where she goes that I won’t be just a step behind her.”_

She is crying now, you know very well that she is. You can’t see her tears, true, but at the moment, it is like your ear become so very aware of the choked and wet little hiccups she's trying to contain.

You wonder just how many days are left until it becomes easier for her.

And for you, perhaps.

✽ 

You don’t hear from her for what it feels like countless mornings after that particular one.

It dreads you to the bone. You silently fear for the day you find another Dawson name as the headline on your daily town newspaper.

But the tragedy never comes. And in the place where it is supposed to be written, you find a beautiful poem instead.

It is by her, obviously. The initial under the poem burns the paper where your finger touches.

You have never had your eyes glued on a section this long.

✽ 

3:29 am and after all this time, it rings again.

You pick up the phone the fastest you have ever done since the day you started this job.

“Hello again,” she says the word before you can even deliver it. Something in your chest unravels at the sound of her voice and you can’t help but think _oh, it has been about 336 hours without you._

“There you are,” you breathe out, unable to hide the relief in your voice.

She lets out a small defeated laugh. “Here I am.”

You know she has her share of stories to tell, just like always. That is just how she is. So you wait for her, and when the silence continues for far longer than usual, you don’t push her. Her eleventh hours aren’t like others’ that you have known of.

You don’t mind. After all, you find this side of her tragically enchanting.

And as you expected, she begins.

“I scattered her ashes on the small lake near our childhood home last night.”

You don’t have any more condolence words to offer her. Even if you do, you think she has probably grown so very tired of them. So instead of troubling yourself any further, you spin your chair and gaze at the wonderful skies through the window behind your desk.

“The stars are shining marvelously, don’t you think?”

You hear the smile in the voice that has crawled its way into your heart. “Yeah.”

✽ 

“I might be returning to university in near future.”

You wistfully smile and desperately wish you sound encouraging as you tell her, “That’s good for you. I’m glad.”

“I might not be calling as much.”

The thought of not hearing her voice unsettles you somewhere near the ribcage. There’s a part of you that wants to hold on to her, but another part, a bigger and wiser and kinder one, tells you that maybe _this,_ this is all for the best.

And with that, you make your decision.

“I’ll miss you, Mercury Dawson,” you say and mean it. You have always been an exceptionally honest person.

“Me too,” she replies, not an ounce of hesitation. And then, “Thank you, Elliot.”

Shaking your head though she can’t see it, you hear yourself saying, “That’s all you.”

“No,” she insists, her tone a bit too somber for your liking. “Thank _you._ For everything.”

This is the part where you feel a lump in your throat and tears swelling up your eyes. Mostly out of memories, with a touch of almost forgiven guilt. “I didn’t manage to save her.”

“But you saved me,” she tells you so tenderly that you can’t help but lose to the child inside of you.

A tear falls. Then, the dam breaks.

Despite how silently you cry, you think she might be hearing you anyway. It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself, it doesn’t matter anymore if she does. All you know is you are here and so is she and you both are alive even though damaged in some places one another won’t be able to heal.

And in the comforting silence that stretches onward between the two of you, it is difficult to tell just who is really saving whom.

✽

_this is how i felt,_

_this is how i still feel._

_a small gaping hole_

_that consumes_

_every single thought_

_and leaves behind_

_the memories and_

_the feeling of_

_missing you._

_watching quietly_

_as the light fades_

_and breathing in_

_only to be struggling_

_and screaming out_

_only to find it echoes._

_but i am still here_

_and surviving,_

_and conquering,_

_and staying alive._

_this is how i felt,_

_this is how i still feel._

**_—m.d._ **


End file.
